07 MAN F UNCLE: The Blond & Beautiful Raven Affair
by Dan Bivens
Summary: I am sure we all remember the beautiful Marion Raven and the darkly lovely Gervaise Ravel. What will happen when both are thrust back into the lives of our favorite back from the Future UNCLE agents? Will Napoleon and Illya defeat THRUSH? Read on and see.
1. Chapter 1

**THE BLOND & BEAUTIFUL RAVEN AFFAIR**

Chapter 1

"So what else is new?"

In an exceptionally expensive pre-condominium apartment atop a somewhat secret New York skyscraper locale...

Napoleon Solo, a still-suave yet gray-haired-and-wrinkled, but well within reason! re-activated U.N.C.L.E. agent from some forty-plus years in a mutual future shared by a blond, still!, blue-eyed Russian-born re-activated co-agent...

"Well, _Miss_ McNabb," he sighed smilingly, whilst rolling onto his back in the big bedroom two had just passionately shared. "Still concerned about my heart now that an older Napoleon has replaced the younger here in 1964?"

With a broad and gratified grin, U.N.C.L.E. Agent 26, assigned mostly to Section 5, lazily rolled over to place her blond-haired head on Solo's shoulder. Whilst allowing well-manicured fingers to gratefully feel their way through a largely gray-haired chest of a super-sexy septuagenarian.

"No," she sensually said with a hint of a come-hither hum. "There's definitely nothing wrong with your heart, _Mister_ Solo. Guess there really is fire in the furnace even when there's snow on the rooftop."

Just as the two started to press closer in promise of a kiss prior to a repeat of what they had done mere moments earlier...

Bee-dup! Bee-dup! Bee-dup!

As Napoleon's still-sharp hazel eyes denoted distinct disappointment at the transmission signal sounding from the vicinity of his bedside stand's top...

"It's not me, Napoleon," said a smirking in bemusement Miss McNabb even as Napoleon Solo leaned away to pick up the pen from a future period of Time. Then, with the slightest upward pressure upon the ball of the pocket clip of the Cross brand writing implement...

"Solo here," properly pouted Napoleon into the instantly self-converted device used for surreptitious transmissions 'twixt a secret agent and his headquarters. Or with another agent-in-the-field, when both were on active assignment anywhere in or around the world.

This time, however, 'twas Alexander Waverly's unmistakably British-accented voice that came forth from the microphone-speaker combo popping up atop the pen communicator held 'twixt the tips of the fingers of Napoleon's right hand...

"Mr. Solo, I need you back at headquarters as quickly as possible. Mr. Kuryakin is already here. As is usual for him. So bid a fond farewell to whatever lovely lady you happen to be spending so much time with this early evening and report in. Waverly out."

Even though the wireless link had been abruptly terminated by "the boss", Napoleon none-the-less said, "On my way," just before pressing down on that self-same pocket clip of the Cross brand pen to instantly turn it back into an expensive, from the Future!, writing utensil.

"Well, Miss McNabb, looks like," he had started even as he turned back toward the woman who'd shared much more than his bed after a romantic time of dinner and dancing. He wasn't at all surprised to see she had already nearly completely donned her darling little black dress. "Hm. You seem to be able to put on your finest frock as easily as you'd taken it off a couple of hours earlier."

"Yes," she said with shaky smile, "and after returning to my own apartment to change into something much more suitable for U.N.C.L.E., I intend to retake my place in Communications."

"But," the salt-and-pepper haired Number 11 said as he, too, picked out a fresh suit from the large closet situated to one side of his sizable master bedroom, "you're still off-duty...Agent 26. Why don't you just..."

"Nonsense," she said swiftly in order to prevent Napoleon's apparent expostulation from hitting home. "If you...and Mr. Kuryakin, of course...are heading out on a potentially deadly mission affair...I intend on being back on duty in Section 5. End of discussion."

Just as this exquisitely comely woman strode straight and sure toward the bedroom's door, Napoleon lightly held her back by a bare upper arm...

"You know," Napoleon, at long last, softly said, a crooked grin on his still-handsome-after-four-plus decades countenance, framed perfectly by graying hair. "You're sense of independence would've done well in the future from which I have very recently hailed."

Even as it seemed a kiss that surpassed the mere physical or sexual was about to aborn for both...

"I, uh, need to go hail a cab," Miss McNabb managed, whilst gently pulling free from a grasp that was very nearly Loving in nature. "So do you. Just because you're now in the same age group as Mr. Waverly...doesn't mean he'll be any less chastising should you be late."

"Right as always," answered Napoleon Solo with a smile and a wink, while tugging on his tie. "Miss McNabb."

A quick cab ride later, followed by walking into a supposedly closed-for-the-night Del Floria's tailor shop. Then entering through the super-secret blast-proof double-dense door, whereby a hallway walk led to an anteroom receptionist and color-coded, upside-down triangular tag-like badges...

...Number 11 of Section 2 soon sat across from Number 1 of Section 1, along with Number 2 of Section 2, with the circular metal-and-oak escritoire 'twixt they and he...

"So," Solo said with a sly smirk disguising his desire for agent action, "what's THRUSH up to tonight?"

Leaning closer and sniffing, whilst speaking in a hushed aside for the ears of a dear friend and fellow U.N.C.L.E. operative, Illya Kuryakin, still nearly untouched-by-Time, unabashedly asked, "Switched your usual cologne for a lady's perfume, Napoleon? Very nice. Chanel Number 5?"

The gleam in the blue eyes of the blond-haired Russian left little doubt that the whispered question was just a gentle gibe from a fast friend of forty-plus years...

"It still smells better than what you're wearing, Illya," quietly quipped Napoleon Solo with as much muted humor as his lifetime teammate. "Still sticking to Old Spice, I see. How...'old' of you."

Suspecting his two top U.N.C.L.E. agents, no matter their current older-by-decades age, were sharing an amusing moment, Alexander Waverly laid a folder, brandishing the U.N.C.L.E. logo, upon his side of the large Lazy Susan top. Then slowly spun it 'round to two of his best.

"Though, from your curiously estranged-via-Time perspective, this will be more of a memory of some past mission affair already long accomplished," started Mr. Waverly, even as both Napoleon and Illya looked over everything within that U.N.C.L.E. folder. Including a black-and-white five-by-three photo of a beautiful blond forever burned into the recollections of two seemingly, on the surface, over-the-hill operatives. "This young lady seems to be the focus of THRUSH's unwanted attention yet again."

"Marion Raven," avowed Napoleon with more in regards to an agent's emotionless remembrance of a mission affair already, for them, ended decades ago.

"Yes," softly said Illya as a more personal recollection revealed, momentarily at least, a little more feeling from the normally cool Number 2. Something he swiftly tried to hide. "Uhm...what is it this time, sir?"

While a half-smiling Napoleon Solo stayed mercifully silent, Alexander Waverly locked eyes with equally-aged, at least for the nonce, men from U.N.C.L.E. Then coldly told both...

"It would seem that Gervaise Ravel...I'm quite certain you, Mr. Solo, quite clearly recall her...has decided the time may be right to exact a measure of revenge against the two of you...by kidnapping and, quite likely, killing Miss Raven. Amongst some other sufficiently devious and diabolical deed or deeds, no doubt. After all, Miss Raven did help on more than one occasion against Miss Ravel and led to the inevitable death of her Mr. Bufferton."

"Hell hath no fury," started Solo with a tightly terse smile, just as Kuryakin quickly cut in.

"So you wish us to seek out and protect Marion...er, uhm...Miss Raven?"

Even Waverly's basset hound affectation offered up a brief half-grin. He then, with a hard nod, said, "Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. But, this time, I want Mr. Solo to 'baby-sit' Marion Raven...while you, Mr. Kuryakin, seek out Gervaise Ravel."

After both abruptly shot very hard glaring glances at one another, it would be Napoleon who first asked, with a pensive and puzzled look dominating a mien much, much older than that either years-younger lovely ladies would invariably recall...

"But neither are expecting us as we are now, sir. Why are you...?"

Though ostensibly silent, Illya's look seemed to scream vast volumes, as Waverly promptly replied, "Because neither of you should enter into this particular mission affair with pre-conceived emotions nor remembered motivations. It is vitally important that Miss Gervaise Ravel...and, by at least a little true extension, THRUSH...be permanently stopped! That's it, gentlemen. Section 5 has the individual details for you both. On your way now."

Turning his British attentions to other mission affair folders now neatly littering his side of the oaken oval desktop, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo slowly stood in order to retreat through the automatically opening blast-proof inner office door leading away from Waverly...

...and, after a brief stop in Section 5, where Miss McNabb had discreetly resumed her duties, whilst wearing the appropriate attire with upside-down triangular, color-coded badge brandishing the number "26"...

...and, after taking temporary possession of two stylish-for-the-Sixties automobiles in order to head in two dramatically different directions: Napoleon simply to a still-in-New York apartment wherein an unsuspecting-and-very lovely blond could be quite carefully defended; Illya for the airport in order to be borne by jet plane to where a certain THRUSH-ette could be clandestinely located...and killed?

Thus two older-looking men from U.N.C.L.E. would likely encounter a helluva lot more than either had been led to believe.

As Illya Kuryakin would quite characteristically mutter to himself shortly after take-off, "So what else is new?"

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"For once in your lecherous life...Be a gentleman"

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Marion Raven had been enjoying a nighttime cup of coffee when the three light-yet-lively raps were heard from the other side of her handsome apartment's main door.

"Who is it?" she called not-at-all-cautiously as she stepped to within an arm's length from said door. Her recollections of previous proactive involvement with **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement still a little too animate in her mind.

But more so this singular Summer eve than ever before.

"A friend of your Uncle," came the muffled-yet-clever little reply in a voice still instantly felicitous. As the smile spreading swiftly across her countenance of blond beauty quickly came to demonstrate.

Even as she swung open the just-unlocked door via the centrally-located knob, how chic for the Sixties!, she smilingly said, "Napoleon Solo...how are you?"

As the two engaged in a genuinely friendly embrace, the also smiling Napoleon said in strictest civility, "I'm doing quite well, Marion, thank you. And yourself?"

As the short hug ended with the door closed and locked again, Napoleon looked all around the stylishly furnished living room in both appreciation of its aesthetics as well as looking for potential THRUSH thugs lurking in the corners.

"Oh, you know, Napoleon. Glad to be alive, but, somehow, after all the excitement you and Illya and that dear Mr. Waverly had opened up to me...by the way: where _is_ Illya?"

Those last three words were spoken with as much emotional content in connection with the blond man from U.N.C.L.E. as was present in Illya Kuryakin back at the hidden-from-the-world headquarters of the super-secret institution.

"He's on assignment elsewhere, Miss Raven," Napoleon Solo said as he smoothly spun. Suddenly struck by the indisputable certitude, as specious as it was subtle, that Marion Raven seemed not at all surprised by a decades-older man from U.N.C.L.E. appearing at her door, instead of the dark-haired years-younger Napoleon she'd last seen. "Uh...aren't you the lest bit curious as to what had happened to turn me into, uh..."

"An old man?" Marion commented quite coolly, though not at all cruelly. At least, not intentionally.

"Well, uh," Napoleon playfully replied with a clearing of his throat, even as his right hand slowly slipped beneath his coat's crisp lapel in order to grab his holstered pistol sent back from the self-same Future as his handsome Self. A Glock 18 with flash-suppressor nose, as was present on the Walther P38's originally carried. "I wouldn't necessarily have put it like that, Miss Raven, but, uh...yes."

"No need to draw your gun, Mr. Solo," she said with a slightly amused half-smile. "A young woman from your organization...a Miss McNabb, I believe...called a little earlier and told me to expect an older version of a 'friend' from before. I naturally thought it would be Illya...but am also pleased to see you again, Napoleon."

Even as a no-longer-nervous Napoleon allowed his gun hand to drop down, his crooked grin again gracing a lined-by-Time countenance so stylishly framed by a professionally coiffed salt-and-pepper head of hair...

A suddenly mystified Marion pressed, "Just what did happen to turn you...more mature?"

Not in a position to speak on a subject still a secret in two distinct time lines, Napoleon only answered, "Let's just say...some mission affairs are harder on an agent than others."

With an ease of acceptance that seemed so singular to the Sixties, Marion Raven gave a nod, then headed in the direction of her separated by curtain-of-beads kitchen...

"Would you like some coffee, Napoleon? I just brewed up a pot and can certainly use a little more myself, considering the circumstances of your nighttime visit. Which you still haven't revealed, by the way! Although it isn't hard to figure out. Even for a layperson like me."

"Uh, yes, I'll take a cup," Napoleon called back as Marion swiftly disappeared through the beaded drapery. Then, even as he stepped out on the balcony to look more closely at possible places a THRUSH thug might use as a momentary hiding place prior to striking. "As to the reason for my presence...as well as Illya's absence: it's a simple means of providing protection. Temporarily, we all hope, but protection never-the-less."

No sooner did Solo turn back to reenter the apartment's chic interior, than an innocently disquieted blond, and beautiful, lady held out a cup of coffee for this suave and still-handsome man from U.N.C.L.E. to take.

"Oh, uh, thank you," he said in the civility so easy for this Lady's Man, as he sipped from the pipping hot, though nowhere near as tasty as the heavily caffeine-fraught concoctions of the early 21st Century.

"But why would I need to be protected at all, Napoleon? And why would Illya have to go off to wherever it is he's gone off to in order to 'protect' me, too?"

Knowing no way to soften such, Napoleon stared straight and sure into those enticing eyes of blue and said, "Maybe we should sit, Marion. Then I'll lay the whole thing on the metaphorical table."

And, as Napoleon Solo shared such with the subject of their mission affair, Illya Kuryakin had long since landed and deplaned in the general area wherein THRUSH's black-haired, blue-eyed beauty could be located.

None-other-than New Orleans in the Southern state of Louisiana. Some thirteen hundred miles from Illya's starting point. Yet, or so it seemed, an eternity from Marion Raven.

A woman with whom he had had a passionate post-mission affair, er, affair that had left a lot more of himself in its hot-and-heavy wake than the much more coldly cavalier-with-the-ladies Napoleon Solo. Something which had actually given this from-the-Future version of the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent more reason than ever to end the assignment swiftly.

Even if it meant cold-bloodedly killing Gervaise Ravel with a bullet through the brain from his silencer-equipped, via attachments of a magnetic nature to shorten conversion variables!, 9mm Glock gun now nestled in the softness of a shoulder holster.

Definitely not the nature of either this man from U.N.C.L.E. or, for that matter, the man from U.N.C.L.E. currently courting, so to speak, Marion Raven far to the North in New York.

"For once in your lecherous life, Napoleon," lamentably muttered Illya as he drove the rented auto from New Orleans Lakefront Airport to the point whereupon his mission affair would, at last, take shape. "Be a gentleman."

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"...said the spider to the fly"

Driving straight and steady into the famous, and some might say infamous, French Quarter, Illya Kuryakin would wind his way along Rue Dauphine. The very site of Southern sumptuousness that, some seven years hence, would offer up a somewhat sprawling hotel named in honor of Jean Baptist LeMoyne.

Illya couldn't help but recall how, in his original trek through the years and decades ahead of Now, he had stayed at Chateau LeMoyne. Both while on assignment and while only relaxing with one or the other lovely ladies he, too, seemed so capable of captivating. Eat your heart out Napoleon Solo!

Parking the rental within walking distance of the site U.N.C.L.E. Intel had pinpointed as the place wherein Gervaise Ravel could be located, the blond, boyishly beautiful, even at his age!, Russian-born man from U.N.C.L.E. lazily strolled across the busy street. Making expert use of the nighttime traffic of tourists and more regular residents in hopes of surprising anyone standing 'twxt himself and his flesh-and-blood beauteous target.

The sooner I succeed in my mission affair to assist in the salvation of Marion Raven, silently considered the decades-older super-secret U.N.C.L.E. Agent walking with swift-yet-obscure strides, the better I'll feel. And when I return to New York...Napoleon had better not have "been himself" with my Marion! Or else.

Standing next to the street-level entry point into the old building, into which the wayward man from U.N.C.L.E. would need to step, was a sunglasses-wearing, cheap-suited individual quite clearly a THRUSH minion not currently dressed in the all-too-familiar, blatantly ubiquitous beret-and-jumpsuit...

"Excuse me, sir," said Illya with the smiling befuddlement of a foreigner who'd flown in to enjoy the world renowned New Orleans' French Quarter. "But could you possibly steer me in the proper direction for this little hole-in-the-wall I'd been told to look up after arriving? I thought it was supposed to be somewhere close, but I can't seem to..."

"Move along," snarled the sinister, sunglass-wearing guard for Gervaise Ravel's secret location. "Or I'll move you."

"Oh, certainly, sir," babbled Illya like the irritating Russian visitor to The Quarter he so expertly portrayed. "I certainly wouldn't want to stand where I wasn't wanted."

It was just then, as his peripheral hearing and darting eyes verified his presence wasn't especially suspicious to others in the self-same area...

And with the subtlety of a supremely experienced operative, which this older Illya Kuryakin, compared to the formerly younger one that had died due to time-travel events set into motion by a masked Master of THRUSH some forty-plus years from Now named Darien Driscoll...

Pft!

A single shot from the silencer-affixed Glock 18, which Illya so surreptitiously slipped out of its shoulder holster seconds prior to pressing its business end against the heart region of the THRUSH thug's shirt-covered chest...

"Whoa," Illya laughed, as if he and this now-dead individual were friends, "I told you not to drink so much! Here...let's go inside and find a place to sit so you can sober up."

Meanwhile, somewhere much higher than that ground-level doorway so expertly entered by a now armed-with-a-converted-into-carbine, full auto mode making use of extra long ammo clip!, U.N.C.L.E. Agent...

Gervaise Ravel, that black-haired, blue-eyed beauty with the suggestively positioned, seemingly!, super-sexy mole slightly lower than the right side of her lusciously full lips, was nothing if not shrewd. As such pertained to persons of import to the continued operation of the **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity.

Especially so in the United States of America. The birthplace of the **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement whose worldwide reach surpassed that of both the FBI and Interpol.

Bweep! Bweep! Bweep!

Answering the shrill signal that seemed to sound from virtually every corner of the room, which was as expensively furnished as it was classically structured!, two dainty digit depressed two separate sections of a seemingly innocent frame for a popular painting...

Hmmmnnnnn...

Which opened up to reveal a state-of-the-art, for the Sixties!, black-and-white TV-type screen that displayed, via closed circuit cameras, an older-yet-oddly familiar form gradually climbing the creaking stairwell leading up past two other ordinary-appearing floors in order to reach hers.

"Curious," said Gervaise as she sipped from the crystal-cut champagne glass clutched in her left hand. "Though it's obviously Illya Kuryakin coming up with that...unique to U.N.C.L.E. gun in hand. He certainly seems more of a senior citizen than the handsome compatriot of Napoleon Solo. Still...it was this one that coldly killed...Bufferton!"

After allowing the CCTV screen to become an innocuously framed work of art again, the champagne-sipping, seemingly innocent herself!, lovely Lady of Leisure crossed the elegant expanse of the top floor living quarters. Then easily sat, one sexy leg over the other, upon an expensive-yet-old divan whilst double-checking her thigh-holster held Luger 'neath the sensuous designer dress gracing her shapely Self.

With a hint of a devious smile and a growing gleam in those beautiful blue eyes...

"'Step into my parlor', said the spider to the fly. Hahaha, haaa."

END OF CHAPTER 3


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"THRUSH of a feather flock together"

"And you say you and Illya," reiterated Miss Raven, whilst trying really hard to comprehend the incomprehensible, "had to remain in this time...in 1964...which, to both of you now, is a Past some forty-three or more years gone!...because your younger selves were 'assassinated', as it were, by a THRUSH chieftain from that self-same Future? Your previous Present?"

"Uh, yes," said Solo as uncertainty in such super-scientific situations insinuated itself into his aged, but no longer aging!, grayed-over gray matter. "Illya can explain it a lot better, but...that's essentially..."

Thunk...

A slight sound from just outside, on the darkness-enshrouded terrace and past closed and locked sliding glass doors...

"Get back," Napoleon Solo sternly instructed in a half whisper, as he held his flash-suppressor nosed Glock in one hand, whilst the left physically said what his softly spoken voice had in two simple single-syllabled words.

"Oh, Mr. Solo," nervously needled the lovely blond, blue-eyed lady-friend of a certain blond, still!, blue-eyed man from U.N.C.L.E not currently present. "D-do you th-think its...THRUSH?"

"I don't know yet," lightly replied Napoleon, even as he eased closer to one side of the open-curtained sliding glass doors. Glock gun slide-cocked and ready to fire the second some sinister person appeared anywhere on the blackened-by-night balcony. "But take cover, just in case."

Marion ducked down behind an elegant leather living room chair, never once considering the irrefutable fact that the 5.56 NATO rounds, currently used by those THRUSH rifles with the special see-in-the-dark infrared sight systems...

...or, for that matter, the 9mm Parabellum bullets utilized in the Luger's also employed by minions of the **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity. The same size ammunition currently in the clip of Solo's plastic, mostly!, pistol.

As Napoleon looked into the heavily shadowed exterior of said terrace, and as Marion fearfully hunkered behind her chair further inside said living room area...

"Ah, ha."

A shadow darker still, in the distinct shape of a Human male, was cast across the usually relaxing surroundings outside to ostensibly show Solo where his THRUSH target might, in fact, be temporarily entombed...

Bak-cht! Bak-cht! Bak-cht!

"Uhn--"

Kuh-Thud!

As Napoleon Solo swiftly unlocked and slid open the bullet-riddled, by his Glock!, glass door, and as Marion Raven rapidly ran over to stand slightly behind, but to the side, of this gray-haired man from U.N.C.L.E...

"Is he...?"

"Dead."

Napoleon needn't kneel next to the suddenly still suit-wearing form, that had been hiding to the far left of the blackened-by-night balcony, Luger death-clutched in the left hand!, to know that those three hastily blasted bullets had bloodily bored their way through the chest.

"C'mon, Marion!" Napoleon loudly ordered, as his hand, the one without the Glock 18!, quickly clasped one of Miss Raven's. "Where there's one...there's another. Or three!"

"B-but, Napoleon," began the blond and beautiful Marion Raven, whilst being practically dragged behind the decades-older-than-she-readily-remembered man from U.N.C.L.E. "How can you be so sure that...?"

By the time the two opened the stylish-for-the Sixties front door, Napoleon wasn't too surprised to see a typically-attired THRUSH thug brandishing an M-1 carbine converted via infrared sighting system and extra-long clip into one only carried by those sadistic servants of U.N.C.L.E.'s eternal enemies.

Unable to do naught but allow his weapon to be taken, whilst lifting both hands in reluctant surrender, Napoleon's half-smirking Self spoke over one shoulder to Marion, also in the throes of hesitant submission.

"Like I was saying," Napoleon Solo said somewhat facetiously, "THRUSH of a feather flock together."

END OF CHAPTER 4


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5/Conclusion

"...there's as much bite as bark..."

Even as the vision of Napoleon Solo slowly solidified, after having been abruptly introduced to a little knockout gas the instant he and Marion Raven, both having given up!, had reached street level...

"Illya?"

Agent Kuryakin had also resumed consciousness almost at the self-same instant as Solo and Raven, having also been introduced to a little THRUSH knockout gas once he'd burst in upon the beauteous-yet-treacherous Gervaise Ravel...

"Why am I not surprised," Illya lamented, even as the three of them came to realize they were quite tightly secured to a trio of metal chairs, "to find the both of you here? Wherever 'here' happens to be."

It was clearly a building's dark, dank basement or cellar. Worse, it now seemed the metal chairs were weighted down by blocks of concrete. Thus effectively preventing either Illya or Napoleon from overturning them in a desperate search for some means of freeing themselves from their handcuffed-to-chain constraints.

Not that such was even under serious consideration by these aged-yet-not aging agents.

"Wh-what are th-they going to d-do with us?" stammered Marion Raven with much more fear than ever experienced, especially from THRUSH!, via over-the-hill operatives of U.N.C.L.E.

"I'm sure, Miss Raven," the graying-haired and noticeably lined-by-Time Napoleon Solo said with more than a little trepidation tainted by his ever-present sense of insolence in any situation. "That THRUSH...or, in this case, Miss Gervaise Ravel...will let us know just how dire our current set of circumstances might be. Any minute now..."

"Mr. Solo," Marion Ravel, now dressed in a dark-black, skin-tight, over a very curvaceous-for-the-Sixties shape!, shirt-and-trouser togs. "I almost didn't recognize you when you and Miss Raven were carried in by my muscle-bound minions. You've evidently had a very, very hard time since last we met."

"What can I say?" quipped Napoleon with a crooked grin as his ageless eyes of hazel sexually scanned, and properly appreciated!, Gervaise's body-grabbing garb. "A lot of water's passed under my bridge. Aphoristically speaking. I have to say...you've managed to hid quite a lot under the dresses I've seen you in. Quite a lot, indeed."

Such a seductively-delivered, no matter this man from U.N.C.L.E.'s age!, statement staggered the decades-younger Gervaise Ravel. Causing an equally adulatory and, especially, sexually excited smile to flash across her mole-marked countenance.

Which quite quickly faltered as she stepped before the blond, blue-eyed, barely lined-by-Time man from U.N.C.L.E. still secretively struggling with his handcuffs whilst this THRUSH-ette had wasted time with Napoleon.

"And you! If not for you, Bufferton would still be alive...and by my side. As was our plan."

It was quite clear that there, indeed, had been a helluva lot more to the relationship of Miss Ravel and Mr. Bufferton than that of two important-to-THRUSH personages. Something that, in actuality, Illya could utilize to their facilitation toward final freedom.

"I didn't know you THRUSH could feel anything remotely resembling Love, Miss Ravel," snarled a smirking with insensitivity Illya Kuryakin, as Napoleon Solo picked up on the blatantly tactless tactic.

So, there came a very hard and heavy backhanded blow, from a seemingly feminine hand that happened to be wearing large and decidedly hard-edged diamond rings. Which did much more than merely bring forth a trickle or two of blood from a smashed mouth.

Something immediately made all-too-clear via cuts, shallow yet bloody, across the right cheek of this over-the-hill operative. Causing a gasp of great personal concern to issue forth from Marion Raven, which instantly bespoke of the after-mission affair, er, affair enjoyed by a years-younger, and now dead thanks to Darien Driscoll!, Illya Kuryakin.

One that had doubtlessly not wained at the sudden, recent sight of an older blond, blue-eyed, yet still boyishly beautiful!, Illya Kuryakin.

Something that brought about a rise of revenge-fueled avarice across the face of this THRUSH-ette in black. Evidenced by not only a nasty smirk, but the pulling from rear-positioned holster of an equally black Luger. Which she slowly, and sinisterly, pointed right at the forehead of the wide-eyed-with-innocence, as such pertained to espionage!, Marion Raven.

"Since you took my beloved Bufferton's life, Mr. Kuryakin," snarled, though smilingly so, the malignantly lovely lady, causing Kuryakin to struggle with much more emotion than normal for the Russian. "I think I'll return the favor."

"No!"

POW!

"Uhn!"

Thu-thud!

Napoleon Solo, no longer handcuffed to chains holding him so seemingly motionless to a metal chair anchored via heavy deterrents made of cement, held down the dressed-in-black beautiful lady of THRUSH. His still svelte Self lying atop the black-haired, blue-eyed beauty.

"Sorry, Gervaise," Solo said solicitously, crooked grin firmly in place. "But next time, maybe your 'muscle-bound minions' should relieve their temporarily unconscious hommes en otage of their 'harmless' cuff links. Especially so when such double as depositories of just enough explosive to silently blow the locks of a pair of 'police bracelets'."

"Then you had better kill me, Mr. Solo," snarled Miss Ravel vengefully whilst ceasing to struggle underneath the handsomely dapper-despite-age gray-haired man from U.N.C.L.E. "Because, if you do not...I shall not cease in my attempts to kill you, Mr. Kuryakin, and...my half-sister, Marion Raven."

Shock swiftly struck the trio silent, even as Illya released himself from handcuffs via the use of similarly micro-explosive containing cuff links prior to rapidly removing Marion's...

"Come again?" Illya finally asked as Miss Ravel was rather roughly lifted and held fast and tight by Napoleon, who left little doubt that he'd definitely be willing to twist her held-in-his-hands arm to facilitate actual, and agonizing! breakage of bone.

"I only recently learned the horrid truth myself," hissed the she-devil dutifully doing the bidding of whomever currently controlled THRUSH since Andrew Vulcan's apparent assassination by a time-traveling, mask-wearing, half-faced Darien Driscoll at around the same time he killed the still-young Illya and Napoleon. "Apparently our 'father' was one in the same. I'd always wondered who mine had been, though my mother claimed he had died before I was born. I always suspected such to be an onerous falsity. That's why, in order to prove my worth to THRUSH...I gladly killed the lying bitch!"

"M-my...s-sister?" stammered a still-astonished-to-near-wordless wonder Marion Raven with beautiful blue eyes growing wider.

"No," spat the sick and sinister Gervaise Ravel with more than a little outright hatred. "Half-sister! For me to even claim that link-by-blood is more than I can stomach. That's one of the reasons I agreeably aided THRUSH in hunting our 'Daddy' down after exposing him to the 'fear gas', whereupon he was shot like the lowly, sleep-around dog that he, in fact, turned out to be! Especially so since he seemed to wish to share himself with you...while leaving me all alone like some mongrel of an orphan. Because of you, Mr. Kuryakin killed my...Bufferton! The only man I ever really...believed to be my equal."

With a sudden rise of rage that both surprised and pleased two aged agents of the **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement, New York branch...

Ssslaaap!

"Ack!"

The brazen Black Widow with **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity had her head sharply snapped to one side as streamers of dark red were sent forth from right-to-left, whilst still held tightly and threateningly by Napoleon Solo...

"I hope you burn in Hell, 'sister'!" snarled a normally non-violent blond, as her blue eyes locked with those of her hateful sibling-by-blood with the intense severity of super-lasers. "But, before you do, just know that...Father did love me best! Bitch."

Even as the older-now-than-originally Illya pulled the Cross brand pen from an inner pocket of his stylish-for-the-Sixty's suit coat, instantly transforming it into a redesigned, forty-three years hence!, super-secret communicative device in order to report in with New York's U.N.C.LE...

"It would seem," Solo said amusedly, "that there's as much bite as bark with our formerly 'frail' lady-friend."

"So it would seem," answered Kuryakin scant seconds before requesting that Channel D be engaged via the cylindrical device 'twist thumb and fingers of his right hand. "So it would seem."

END


End file.
